


Today to Tomorrow

by fushiginokunino



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, apocalypse boyfriends, it's just fluff! that's what it is!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-01
Updated: 2020-01-01
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:08:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22053058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fushiginokunino/pseuds/fushiginokunino
Summary: Everything that might lie in wait, that hungered for terror, that spared even a fleeting thought for the Archivist and his companion or their whereabouts—Jon could See them all, if he allowed himself, and tear their minds from their flesh in an instant. It would be so easy; the mere idea of it tugged at his mind with the force of an ocean’s current, urging him out of himself.But then Martin was before him, untying the knot with trembling fingers, always trembling fingers, and he had made a promise.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 10
Kudos: 157
Collections: End-of-Year Exchange 2019





	Today to Tomorrow

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Dathen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dathen/gifts).



“Careful,” Martin warned, “There’s a sinkhole.” There was a soft crunch as he took a ginger step forward, “Or...something that was trying to be? There’s no car in the drive, so maybe—” Jon pictured him scrunching up his nose, thoughtful. “Maybe whoever lived here got away, and the Buried called it a day?” The hand around Jon’s tightened, just barely.

“Most likely.” It wouldn't be the first case they'd encountered of an entity simply...losing interest. With reality a veritable sandbox for Fear, finishing the job was much less a priority. Silver linings. He squeezed Martin’s hand in turn.

They could only assume that whatever had happened, it was over now. He _should_ Know, otherwise, bits and pieces slipping through their makeshift defenses like a tune through radio static. (Of course, dwelling on it would have the same effect. Best not.) 

“Right, so,” Martin began tugging him along in a wide arc, avoiding potentially unstable areas, “It’s semi-detached—quaint, red brick, exactly the stock photo you're thinking of, that's it—so let’s try the far side?”

The change in octave told Jon that Martin was anxious, and he well understood the sentiment. If there were a better option, he’d hardly be inclined to spend the night on ground that tilted, however imperceptibly, toward yet another of the scars left by the world’s new gods. (Best not to think too hard on that, either.)

With the practiced efficiency of someone who’d been no stranger to breaking and entering even before the sky turned pale and watchful, sending them stumbling through the countryside for nearly a week now, Martin swept the common spare key hiding spots. He located one beneath a stray watering can and let them in, silently checking each room, hatchet in hand.

A far more effective weapon was the one he had left on the sofa. Everything that might lie in wait, that hungered for terror, that spared even a fleeting thought for the Archivist and his companion or their whereabouts—Jon could See them all, if he allowed himself, and tear their minds from their flesh in an instant. It would be so easy; the mere idea of it tugged at his mind with the force of an ocean’s current, urging him out of himself.

But then Martin was before him, untying the knot with trembling fingers, always trembling fingers, and he had made a promise. _Only if we really need it. Please._

“Look at me?” Martin’s voice was hoarse as it was gentle, exhausted from days of painting in words all that Jon did not see, for fear of what Sight might bring. Now, again, it called him back—to himself, to home—and as the blindfold dropped to his lap, he opened only those eyes that had always belonged to Jonathan Sims. There was no rush of Knowing flooding his senses and dragging him under, pulling him in a thousand directions—only Martin, who probably didn’t even notice that he always bit his lip in silent anxiety at this point, and whose palms were warm against his cheeks. Only Martin.

“Hey,” he said.

Martin’s answering _Hey_ was smothered in his shirt as he dove forward, almost knocking them both over, but that was alright. They were alright.

As he ran a hand through Martin’s hair, he inspected the room carefully, piece by piece. Memories of pulling clothes from the wardrobe, slamming drawers. He flinched as he got a particularly nasty jolt of secondhand fear from the window that faced the sinkhole, and Martin pulled back, hands coming to rest gently on his shoulders.

“Is it too much?”

“No. No, it should be fine, once we’re settled.” There was a limited amount to be Known, indoors, even if the measure of horror to have touched this place was...less than ideal. He would adjust.

Martin pursed his lips, but nodded.

* * *

Together, they ventured to the kitchen, where Jon explored the refrigerator and cupboards. To his delight, the vegetables in the former were still serviceable (for pasta sauce, at any rate), and the latter contained chamomile and honey. The cup of throat-soothing tea he presented to Martin, who had occupied himself unfolding an expansive map on the table, earned him a genuine smile—all at once making any drawbacks their choice of accommodations had seem quite insignificant.

“So,” said Martin, setting down his mug in favor of brandishing a pen, “This is the village where we stopped off to warn people about that odd moss.” He jabbed at a point on the green line showing the day’s progress. It was connected at the north end to a red line, which in turn was connected to a blue one, and so on: a motley assortment of colors leading back to the safehouse. “Oh! And this,” he pointed to another spot, “Was the place with the adorable ducklings. Hold on, I took pictures.”

“You’re ridiculous,” Jon tried to scoff. Somehow, he only managed to make the words sound even fonder than they had earlier that day, which did little to discourage Martin from reeling him in with his free arm to present the pictures in question.

Indeed, it was only after proper evaluation of the ducklings’ measure of adorableness (conclusion: high) that Martin freed him to begin cooking dinner. He had come to enjoy the work of putting together a meal from whatever was available at the accommodations they had bought, borrowed, or sneaked into, as this was generally enough of a challenge to keep his attention.

Perhaps more importantly, it gave Martin a break, which was increasingly a matter of concern. Focused as he was, Jon couldn't help but notice the constant tension in the hand that held his, nor how the steps he followed had begun to falter.

He was all the more convinced that something had to be done when he set the sauce to simmer and poked his head into the sitting room, where he found Martin frowning at the bookshelf. His fingers rested against the spine of a paperback, hesitant, as if he were unsure whether it would be decent to disturb it.

Martin _worried_ , about things like that. About the well-being of complete strangers. About the people he was so reluctant to call friends. About a certain conduit of the apocalypse who loved him more than he could possibly know. And Jon didn’t need preternatural vision to see the weight of all that upon him.

He stepped forward quietly, and Martin gave a little _oh_ as he wrapped his arms around him from behind, pulling him close. “Martin,” he began, resting his forehead against his back. “We should stay here tomorrow.”

“We _can't_ ," came the expected, unhappy reply.

Martin was right, after a fashion. They couldn't stay here like this. A day of fretting indoors would be less physically demanding, but it wouldn’t help. Not really. Jon wasn’t done, though.

“We can, if you help me See.”

Martin’s shoulders tensed immediately. The blindfold had been his idea, after all. To spare Jon the horrors that he had once been subject to only in nightmares, and keep him a little more whole, a little more _here_ , regardless of how it increased the burden to himself. _Every step, Jon, if you need me to.  
_

If it were up to him, the Archivist would never open himself to the fullness of this new world again. Never. But Martin had made a promise, too, when he had first tied that strip of cloth cut from the blanket they had grown used to sharing, and Jon caught both of his hands in his. _Don’t try and do this alone. Please._

Martin sighed. “Are you sure?”

“It’s quiet here.” Not like a windswept lane outside what they both wished could have been _home_ , where the force of the whole of humanity’s terror had brought him to his knees. And in any case— “I have you.”

“Just for a second.”

“Just for a second,” he agreed, as Martin’s fingers wove into his.

He opened his eyes. All of them.

For a moment, he Saw the whole of creation spread before him, and Knew it for its horror and its majesty. He was an observer as sharp and unforgiving as the Beholding itself, the true keeper of knowledge best forgotten that Jonah Magnus could never be. This world belonged to _him_.

And then he heard the familiar sound of his name, and he was Jon again. Just Jon, face buried in a dark sweater, holding fast to someone incredibly dear. He smiled even as he let out a shuddering breath against Martin, who in return exhaled long and slow, hands falling to his sides as he relaxed into him. They could hold each other up like this. Forever, if they needed to.

“We’re safe,” Jon finally said. “Nothing knows we’re here—well, aside from the obvious. Basira is with Melanie and Georgie. And the couple whose home we’re currently availing ourselves of are perfectly well, so you’d better put that book back when you’re done with it.”

Martin huffed a laugh, and Jon felt it all the way through him. He shifted, and there came the sound of the paperback sliding smoothly from its place.

“Keats?” Jon asked as he half-ducked, half-wiggled under Martin’s arm to get a better view.

“Among others,” Martin replied, flipping through the pages so he could see, “Just the famous ones. Pretty standard collection. I've got the same one in my flat.” He closed the book gently, tucking it under his free arm. “Did you happen to see if you’ve burned our dinner?”

* * *

As they settled into bed that evening, Jon was inordinately amused to find a few of Martin’s more slovenly behaviors had temporarily reasserted themselves. Trousers draped across the end of the bed. A half-finished mug of tea on the floor, within arm’s reach and potential spilling distance. A good portion of the contents of his tipped-over rucksack askew. The stuffed highland cow that usually kept silent vigil from where it peeked out the top of the bag had been moved to a spot near Martin’s pillow. Repacking and tidying up would be an ordeal.

Jon smiled to himself as he reached over to turn off the lamp, pausing on the way back to brush a strand of hair from Martin’s cheek. He followed it with a kiss for good measure.

Tomorrow, they would take turns bringing mugs of tea out to the sofa. Jon would remind Martin that he didn’t have to, really, if he’d rather give his throat a rest, but Martin’s arm would tighten around him, holding him firmly in place. Martin would read aloud the poems he had read a hundred times before, a little more boldly each time, until the stammering hesitation was smoothed from his voice and his heartbeat slowed beneath Jon’s palm. Jon would murmur appreciatively, though he would privately think the words not half so lovely as the reader, and find cause to ask Martin for his professional opinion on a line or two, bringing the heat back to Martin’s face with a vengeance. They would stay like that for hours, just the two of them, together, and remember all things that made the world worth saving.

“And what was that for?"

“Ah,” Jon buried his face in the crook of his neck before replying, “You know.”

There was a small, sweet silence in which Martin's blush was audible. Then a familiar warm weight curled around him, entwining their legs and whispering into his hair.

“Yeah. Me too.”


End file.
